


Frantic

by seperis



Category: Smallville
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-30
Updated: 2005-05-30
Packaged: 2017-10-26 03:23:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Clark does not get dinner.  And then everything goes downhill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frantic

**Author's Note:**

> Nonchop asked and asked and then I said yes, though it took a *darn* long time to finish. Possibly my happy gene is in remission or somesuch. You'd be surprised how much pressure someone (*cough* madelyn *cough*) can put on a person, though

"Adrenaline?"

That's so old that even Clark can't believe he said it. There are only so many excuses without resorting to concussions and the X-Files, though, and right, so sometimes he forgets who he used what with. It happens. From the tone of Lex's voice, this is one of those times. Lex can't even make himself pretend to believe long enough to get back to the castle and start really wondering. Or lair. Whatever the hell he's calling it these days.

"*Adrenaline*?"

This day had to come, Clark thinks glumly, staring at the road beyond his steering wheel. Somewhere far behind them is something gooey and iridescent green, and it's probably following them, but no, Lex couldn't worry about that. That would be *sensible*. That would be *productive*. No, the guy has to get all obsesso about Clark's *excuses* dammit, and that just wasn't fair at all.

"You are telling me," and Lex manages to fill that sentence with the kind of disbelief usually reserved for old lady Taylor, convinced that her rocking chair was trying to assault her virtue in her sleep, "you are telling me that it was *adrenaline*--"

"We're kind of running for our lives here," Clark grinds out between clenched teeth. He could have said metal fatigue. Or knocked Lex out. Or that Lex imagined it--oh, no, they're not taking that route again; that can only end up places where Lex is armed to the teeth and talking to disembodied children, and his aim is disturbingly good when he's crazy. Not going to happen. If Lex wants better excuses, he can damn well start making them up on his own. "Could we stop--"

"I don't believe you are still trying to *pull* this shit--and you're about to run off the road, could you fucking *get back on the asphalt before you kill us*?"

Clark steers to the right and wishes, with all his heart, that Lana had been the one in danger, not Lex, because at least Lana *shuts up* for awhile, and oh God, that green goo is closing in *fast*.

"After *fifteen fucking years*--"

"Christ, Lex." And now Lex is throwing *this* up in his face, and it might be yesterday in Smallville, except Lex at twenty-one would have just quietly gathered evidence for the future confrontation, while this one, who, by the way, is being a total *ass* about being rescued, just sits there, making righteous noises, like he has oh so much moral high ground--

"--you think that excuse still *works*?"

"I can so leave you for the goo, Lex."

Lex kicks the dashboard with one shoe. Those anger management classes never did take, Clark reflects, feeling a little nostalgic. "Fuck you."

"Whatever. Get your seatbelt on."

From the corner of his eye, Clark sees Lex's disbelieving look, like it is just the stupidest thing he's ever said in his life, but at least he listens, and Clark turns the truck as sharply as he dares. There's a plan involved here somewhere, but Clark's not sure what it is yet. He just watched the goo eat through a small herd of Belgian goats, and wonder of wonders, Clark hadn't known they *had* Belgian goats in Smallville. A lot of Blob movie references come to mind, but nothing useful. Except at the end of the movie, where the Blob is taken off to the Arctic to await the sequel, but hell if Clark's going to share prime frozen real estate with that thing.

Beside him, Clark can hear Lex's mumbled threats and promises, the endearing kind that involve cutlery, meteor rock baths, and Clark's hide. Yes, that's very productive, Lex. Just keep being that helpful.

"Could you use that brain of yours for something *useful* for a change?" Clark asks rhetorically, wishing that just once, visits home wouldn't degenerate into some kind of late night television drama. It's not that much to ask. Come home for dinner and pie, visit his childhood hangouts, watch some TV, maybe David Letterman, then go to bed at a decent hour. It's nice. He's heard of those things happening. To other people. But not him.

No. He gets goo.

If he was as paranoid as, say, oh, some of the *other* people in the truck, he just might think that it had something to do with *him*.

"...and I know better than to come down here when you're visiting your parents," Lex is mumbling, clinging to the armrest like he's developed a fatal attraction for faded vinyl. "Every fucking time...."

"Will you *shut up* already? What is that thing?"

Lex looks at him like he's grown a second head. "What the hell do you *mean*? I have no clue what that is!"

"It's on Lexcorp land!"

"I own most of the county! Of *course* it's going to be on my land! Where else would it be? The fucking *sky*?"

Fifteen minutes ago, a blissful fifteen minutes, Clark was taking a quiet country drive, enjoying the smells of the day, fresh corn and wind and muffins, from the box his mom sent along. It was perfect, with a bright blue sky, waving yellow corn, and happy bird singing. Days didn't get better than that.

But then there was goo, and there was Lex on the hood of his Bentley, shooting at it of all godforsaken things, and Clark still has no idea what he thought *that* would accomplish, except maybe that Lex has gotten a little too friendly with firearms over the last few years. When 'a little' can translate as 'sleeps with them in bed', and yes, Clark knows that knowing that is probably way above and beyond the call of duty, but hey, he goes that extra mile. He's a good vigilante superhero like that.

Taking a deep breath, Clark focuses. "Okay, did you see where it came from?"

"Out of the field. I wasn't exactly watching for it."

"And shooting it seemed a good reason because--"

Lex doesn't answer, but Clark sees his hand twitch to his pocket, like he's fantasizing about using his gun on Clark's head. It doesn't have Kryptonite bullets, which is kind of a relief. That means that Lex wasn't involved in anything really nefarious out here. Probably contemplating more buying, or selling, or hell, how his car looked in the middle of a dusty road--

No, wait.

"Lex? Why are you in Smallville?"

And now Lex shuts up. Bastard. Clark checks the rearview mirror, then the gas gauge. He's not sure it's actually chasing them--after all, it might not be sentient--but on the other, he doesn't want to lead it back to town, either, or home, and he's really close to running out of gas. Which just sucks any way he looks at it. Concussion or imagination? Concussion or imagination? Maybe--

"I don't think that's any of your business," Lex says, with an edge of martyrdom that makes Clark grit his teeth. "But if you must know, I'm recovering from a bitter divorce--"

"Lex, you left her on a deserted island for a month and called her Helen the Third. *Please*."

"She was trying to kill me!"

"And you're not seeing a pattern here? You *marry psychopaths*. You date normal women, then you marry the scary ones. I mean, even Mom was saying--"

"Don't you dare bring your mother into this--"

"I'm just saying, serving her papers on a beach in the Bermuda Triangle after a month of isolation might have been a little over the top, you know?" Clark vaguely remembers prying the knife out of her hand before handing her over to the Met Police Department. Lex's ex-wives have their own cellblock. He hears they've started a bridge club recently.

Lex just looks out the windshield. "I was upset."

Imagine that. "Lex--"

"I don't want to talk about it."

If only Clark could get that in writing. And they are quickly running out of gas. Stupid non-fuel-efficient farm trucks from the eighties.

The field is coming quickly to another road, and a glance back shows no goo in sight. Right. Get rid of Lex somewhere, one, since there's no phone booth and Lex won't fall for that shit anyway, and two--well, there isn't a two. Go fight it, though Clark's unsure what to do with goo, but hey, he'll wing it. Three, get home in time for pork chops.

Mm. Porkchops.

"Where are we?" Lex is squinting out the windshield in a really weird way. "Because it looks like you are trying to *drive us into the goo*."

"Shit!"

And there's the goo, and maybe it's not sentient, but damned if it isn't following them. Probably following Lex, Clark thinks resentfully. Weird things happen to Clark, but only Lex and Lana get stalked by Kryptonite induced danger. Somewhat sentient Kryptonite induced danger.

The truck hates the turn, but it gets them on an alternate course, and Lex stares out the back window. "Clark. I think it's waving at me."

Case in point. "Just. Sit still."

It couldn't be an insane wife, girlfriend, or former nemesis stalking them. Not a disgruntled employee, a new vigilant superhero with something to prove, or even Lex's father, come back from the grave for the *third* time to wreck havoc (and why didn't anyone think to remove that damn ring he wore anyway? At least after the second time?). No. It was goo. Goo that slithered and, yes, a check out the windshield shows it's doing something ripply that could be waving.

Dear God.

"Lex! Don't wave back!" Reaching wildly, Clark drags down Lex's arm. "It's not a voter!"

"I'm *trying* to establish good relations with the thing that's trying to kill me."

"And waving at it while it plots your death is going to do it? I'm sure the *shooting* convinced it of your good intentions. And again, why were you shooting at it?"

Lex jerks his arm away and curls into the seat, one shoe on the dashboard, and he's never looked closer to a sulky adolescent. It's endearing, or would be, if imminent demise wasn't in their future.

"We're kind of running out of options here." Clark gives the rearview mirror another glance. It's not gaining on them, but that stuff seems to travel pretty fast. Things chasing Lex usually do.

"You're the one that does the rescuing. You figure something out." Lex kicks his other foot up on the dashboard in a flagrant attempt to annoy Clark.

"That is so like you!" And it really is. "Oh Clark, rescue me, homicidal girlfriend, oh Clark, rescue me, psychotic ex-football star, oh Clark, rescue me, *I dropped the can opener*, did you really think I'd fall for that shit?"

Lex grins. "The view was worth it."

"No one else dropped a can opener every single time I had to deliver produce."

"Yet you never stopped bending over."

That's true. "We're about to run out of gas."

Lex looks smug. "So start rescuing."

* * *

This isn't an improvement.

A few months ago, when Clark was still sane and Lex was still trying to conquer China using mind controlling video games, Clark had discovered yoga through Lois, who thought he was way too tense for a guy his age. Clark's not sure what really made him go--could have been agreement with her, or his parents' worried looks, or the fact that the soothing whale song alternative had cost The Daily Planet a CD player, and wow, that had taken some fancy verbal footwork to explain why it ended up imbedded in solid stone in the old LuthorCorp building. It's still there today. Clark sometimes looks at it to remind himself that there are fates worse than death. They most definitely involve whale song.

Yoga has taught him patience, and breath control, and how to do some seriously strange body positions. It's supposed to help him find inner peace and tranquility, and there's even a mantra involved. Clark has a special one, and he's using it now. He saves it for occasions like this.

"Lex is not evil, merely misdirected and corrupted by power. He will discover the error of his ways. Lex is not evil--"

"*That's* your yoga mantra?"

Clark opens his eyes and glares at Lex, one branch over. The loss of his suit jacket and the artistically open collar of his shirt, revealing strangely vulnerable and soft-looking skin, isn't distracting at *all*. Clark shuts his eyes again. "We all have our ways of finding inner peace."

"We are about to be killed by sentient killer goo," Lex says slowly, and Clark finds it annoying on a lot of levels that Lex isn't even rumpled. Just sitting there, oozing sexy disbelief in overpriced silk blend and black socks, like he is so put upon to have Clark rescuing him from certain demise. Clark keeps noticing that his own jeans have holes in the knees. "We are in a tree. The situation isn't improving."

Considering that they just watched the truck being dissolved, no, it's not. The goo circled the tree a few minutes ago, but hasn't made any attempt to finish the job. If worst comes to worst, Clark can fly them out, but the way Lex is acting, he's just not sure he wants to take the trouble of pretending there's a logical reason to knock him out.

"It doesn't seem to be attacking." There's no reason for it not to, but Clark's learned a lot about pure evil, and that even in goo form, it conforms to neither human nor Kryptonian logic. It makes bubbly noises, similar to Zombie Lionel's evil laughter, and then groaning noises, like it's telling them its fiendish plans for their messy deaths. A few key pauses make Clark think it expects a response of some kind.

"I'm aware of that," Lex answers, twisting up onto his knees to look down. "It's still waving."

"Did you have some kind of experiment going on that got out of hand?" Clark asks. He hasn't forgotten the army of killer chickens that were supposed to lay genetically superior eggs and possibly take over civilization. The memory of the sheer amount of fried chicken Mom had made him take back to Metropolis with him isn't a pleasant one.

"Why the hell would I create sentient goo?"

"I never did get a good answer about those chickens, either."

Lex throws up both hands, letting go of the branch. Clark's heart stops, but Lex is a Luthor and of all the ways he could die today, none of them involve anything as déclassé as falling off a tree branch. "Can you stop harping on that?"

Right. Let's just pretend that Lex *never* has experiments that get totally out of control and almost destroy the world as they know it. "Do you have any better ideas?"

"I think getting the hell out of this tree would be a good start."

Clark's beginning to agree. The goo is looking a little proactive. A tentacle waves at him with merry menace, reminding him a little of Lex during his transitional phase from Corporate Sociopath to Mad Scientist. "You know--"

Lex gives him a hard look. Below them, the goo starts to ooze up the tree, and the wave of faint sickness is the deciding factor. Shit.

"What?"

* * *

"*I knew it!*"

"Shut. Up."

Sprawled across his back like a mattress, Lex laughs, and it's not endearing. It's really, *really* not. "You are *so* an alien. Fifteen *years*--"

"This doesn't prove I'm Superman." And could Lex shut the hell up about the fifteen years already?

"Oh. *Please*. " It's unfortunate the wind doesn't jerk enough of his voice away. Clark grits his teeth harder. "Are you taking me to your hideout?" Disturbingly, Lex sounds excited. He's also breathing *right* on Clark's ear. That is in no way a good thing. Or too much of one. Something like that.

"No, I'm taking you to the castle." Somewhere. The goo has grown considerably, and Clark's starting to feel the effects of kryptonite, even a few hundred feet from the ground. The truck's gone. Maybe it ate it? And that's how it's growing? And getting stronger?

And he's trying to apply *logic* to this? Really?

"All those years of *adrenaline* and *imagination*, and *insane*, and you--you--" Lex's arms tighten around his neck in what could be mistaken as a disturbingly affectionate hug. "Oh Clark. Superman. Who the hell else would have made tights a fashion statement?"

No one else acts like this. They faint in his arms, mumble gratitude, or promise him a lifetime's worth of sex, then completely fail to deliver. Lex--Lex, well, so *isn't* acting right. "Just shut up and let me fly."

* * *

The goo is *everywhere*. Clark's head aches, and his muscles are making protesting noises. They've gone God knows how far--Clark lost count after a dodge of climbing goo up the side of a cliff. He's never said he has any sense of direction. Speed makes up for a lot in that respect.

Clark glances down and blinks slowly at the fact that the ground looks awfully close.

Thought. They could be losing altitude.

"We're less than two hundred feet up," Lex tells him, looking over his shoulder at the goo no longer so far below them. Clark thinks this is probably the worst time for his fear of heights to kick in, but that doesn't change the dizziness.

Or maybe it's the goo?

"You're feeling this?"

Clark grinds his teeth. "It's getting stronger. I think." Probably from consuming--whatever it consumed--to get that big. Heat vision on it had been a joke. It seemed to *like* it, creepily enough. Below him, shimmering green fields of goo wave liquid hands at them, friendly-like. Please come down and let us eat you. Or just Lex.

It's *got* to be Lex. There's no other explanation.

And it's not like Clark isn't tempted, especially with the piggy-back driver currently wrapping his legs around Clark's waist and staring down like a politician at a party rally, curious and calculating. "Clark, we're losing altitude."

Well, duh. Cause the green stuff is getting *stronger*. "I need to land before we fall."

Whoa. Who knew Lex's legs could cut off circulation? And also, is there a good reason one heel is so close to Clark's groin? "Don't you dare drop me."

"I'd be dropping us both, asshole." Lex is the worst rescuee *ever*. "Do you see anything that isn't--gooey?"

Lex's cheek brushes his, and is that heel moving closer to his groin? Why yes, it is. It really is. Bastard. "Hmm. Look for--there." One arm shoots out like a drug dog finding a good stash. Clark wonders if Lex would appreciate the comparison. Not that Lex is like a dog, per se, with all that lack of hair and all that smooth skin and--no, wait. Wait. "And could you stay airborne, please? So we don't die?"

"Like I want to bathe in kryptonite goo." Focusing his eyes, Clark can see an outcropping of solid stone. Just in range of his flying, if his rate of descent tells him anything. A--cave? "That's a cave, Lex."

"And they say you're just a pretty face." Lex's head turns, cool lips brushing, completely by accident, Clark's ear. And is Lex--enjoying this? The proof may be pressed against the small of Clark's back. Oh God.

This is so ridiculous.

"How is a cave at below ground level going to help?"

"I'm not seeing a lot of other options, *Superman*." And could Lex *sound* any more sarcastic? No, he could not. "Just land us and get us inside."

"Why--"

"Just do it!"

Right. Like Clark's totally a virgin on the saving thing. Gritting his teeth, Clark focuses again, finding the tiny mouth of the cave, slipping inside almost without--

\--hitting anything that isn't stone. Because that--that's not stone. Catching himself on his knees--and could Lex loosen up *just a little*?--Clark stares at the metal door with the stylized LL on the front panel and almost sighs. Of course. "Lex, is this--"

Lex slides off of him with an annoying lack of shakiness, going to the door and entering a code on what looks like bare stone, and the super secret hidden doors slide open like they're greased. Clark opens his mouth, then glances back. The goo is coming. And this is another of Lex's super secret, super stupid, probably-mind-controlling-amphibians-these-days labs, and--

Lex turns to give him a smug look. It's hot. In a completely inappropriate way. "Complaints?"

Clark swallows. "Lead lined, right?"

Even smugger. The bastard. The hot, hot bastard. "Yep."

Goo or Lex's lab? Goo or Lex's lab? Goo or--

"Fine."

* * *

As secret illegal labs go, it's pretty nice.

"I can't believe you built another one." Because he *is* Superman, and he should be disapproving, not thanking God and certain smaller deities that Lex is obsessive and kind of evil. And mutates chickens, and Clark can't even stand chicken pot *pie* anymore, thanks to them, too. It makes him bitter.

He could be having pork chops right now if not for Lex and his damn goo.

Lex rolls his eyes as he flips on the lights. It's a respectable looking enough room, all white washed and probably filled to the brim with all kinds of evil things, hidden behind modest cabinet doors and beneath innocent lab tables, such as the one Clark is sitting on, right now. He x-rays for restraints, just from completely objective and righteous curiosity. No other reason whatsoever. "Like you would have found this one."

"I find *all* of them." Especially when the chickens have homing devices. That was useful. "What are you doing with this one?"

"I'm not going to disclose my nefarious intent before I have you helpless." Flipping on a final light, Lex leans into the wall, watching him with a bright smile, the kind that always comes right before kryptonite bullets and really good brandy. Clark thinks longingly of the good old days, of kryptonite and brandy. And police stations. And being home for dinner. And pork chops.

God, does he wants some pork chops.

"So, do you have a plan?"

Sometimes, Clark wonders if all those concussions really did do something to Lex's ability to process information and observe the world around them. "You said come here."

"Imminent death was kind of staring us in the face--*Superman*." Only Lex could italicize words with his voice like that. On a banner, ten feet high. In Times Square. Oh, this can't turn out well at all. "I assumed, once you weren't exposed anymore, you'd have another bright idea. Another tree, perhaps?"

Oh the sarcasm, how it wounds. "Fuck off. We're alive, aren't we?"

"And probably surrounded by goo. And if you're thinking of burrowing out--don't."

There goes that idea. Which was kind of Clark's only one, currently. "Kryptonite?"

"Pretty much everywhere, yeah. This is lead for more reasons than hiding from you. As if I need to."

They glare at each other, but glaring's only entertaining for so long, and Lex has the attention span of a fruit fly. Turning on one heel, he looks around the room with a mutter that Clark refuses to decipher, since it's probably rude and Clark's above such pettiness.

He's not above hunger, though. It's been a long time since lunch. "Is there anything to eat?"

Lex, in the act of opening a cabinet, freezes and turns around. "You're *hungry*?"

"I'm always hungry after near death experiences." Surely, a secret lab has a secret refrigerator, stocked with whatever it is mad scientists need these days. Maybe not pork chops, but surely something.

Lex frowns at him. Like this is totally new and unexpected. Because Lex can live on Ty-Nant, brandy, and the occasional dip into solid food once a year. Clark's a *superhero*. Something has to keep him going. "I don't know. This is new. We haven't even gotten a chance to move much in." With a mutter, Lex turns away, frowning around the room, then following the Star-Trekkish opening of another door to continue the hunt.

Lex shouldn't be unsupervised. And this is the first time Clark's ever had a chance to view an undestroyed version of Lex's labs. Sliding off the lab table, Clark follows, trying not to be bitter he hadn't thought of doors like this in the Fortress. He'd been going for a minimalist thing there, but the coolness of the whoosh-woosh of opening and closing was entertaining.

"Are you going to play with my doors all day?" The voice comes from somewhere to the left, and Clark sadly leaves off, turning to see Lex crouching by a small white under-desk refrigerator. Inside are various test tubes of indeterminate nature, possibly hazardous and definitely something he should investig--ooh! Milk. And sandwiches!

Superspeed, in Clark's opinion, was made for dinner time. "What kind?"

Lex sits back on his heels and eyes the cellophane. "Dr. Pacey. Probably corned beef." Mmm. Corned beef. "Turkey. Must be Dr. Doom--"

"Dr. Doom?"

Lex eyes him. "Your friends are called Wonder Woman and Batman. Judge not. Which one?"

"Corned beef."

Taking the cellophane wrapped sandwich, Clark opens it up, sneaking another look at the test tubes. "New viruses?" he asks politely between bites. Behind the tubes, there seem to be more sandwiches. As rescues go, this isn't bad at all. Lex passes him the bottle of milk. Bliss. Almost as good as pork chops.

"Nah. Destructive acids. Some cloning basics. A few mystery liquids we'll experiment with to see what they do, probably destructive." Lex waves a hand at the electric blue bottle in the corner. "And that's from the still downstairs by the reactor. Seventy proof, I think."

"Still?"

Lex shrugs. "Pacey's from Kentucky."

Oh. Clark reaches for another sandwich. Pimento cheese. "Where are your mad scientists?"

"Conference." Lex chews thoughtfully. He's barely gotten two bites down. Clark reaches for a third sandwich. "Doesn't your mother feed you?"

"It's *dinner*. If it wasn't for your goo--"

"It's *not* my goo--"

"--I'd be home, eating *dinner*. You know? That meal you don't even know exists?"

It's an old argument. Clark once theorized a lot of Lex's evil came from malnutrition.

Lex draws himself into a silent, cross-legged seat of wounded dignity and finishes the sandwich, leaning back on one arm to eye the electric blue bottle with disquieting intensity.

Oh, this can't be good.

* * *

Two circuits of the lab convince Clark that Lex has way too much time on his hands for the CEO of a multi-trillion-quadrillion-whateverillion corporation. He admires the persistence, though, and is impressed with the superconducting superparticle laser-collider thing, currently in neatly labeled pieces in one of the lower levels, next door to the insta!cloning devices and just down the hall from the homicidal robotics lab.

"Do you always multi-task like this?" Clark asks as Lex sights him through the computer screen duct-taped to the barrel. His raised eyebrows had led Lex into a long, long, *long* speech on the miraculous properties of duct tape, with that edge in his voice that told Clark that Lex was bitter that he hadn't invented it himself. He supposes he should be nervous, but Lex isn't using his gleeful-sociopathic-death smile, so he guesses he's safe enough.

He does wish, though, that Lex didn't get such a kick out of the way the red laser dot looked running over Clark's body as he picked out the most interesting organs to fricassee.

"..which is why we went with this model," Lex finishes, putting down the gun with a regretful sigh. "I'm sorry, am I boring you?"

Clark gives him a sunny smile. "I always enjoy hearing about all the methods you want to use to kill me. Tell me again what you'll do with my spleen. Please."

Lex frowns, sliding the glass case closed, then turning to lean against the wall. "You said you wanted to see what one of these looked like before you destroyed it."

"Yet strangely, I didn't ask for a variation of One Hundred Bottles of Clark's Organs on the Wall, the musical."

"I've *never* sang--."

Clark crosses his arms.

"That one time. It had been a long day. You killed all my chickens." Walking by Clark, Lex turns off the lights, leading him back into the hallway. There's something about institutional lighting that makes Clark's nerves edgy on their own. No one looks good under halogens. Well, except Lex. Of course, Lex looks good pretty much all the time, so this is nothing new. He's gone from subtly eyeing Lex's bare arms to staring outright. It's been years since he's seen this much of Lex's skin. On top of everything else--evil sentient goo, running for their lives, loss of a truck, Lex finding out that Clark's Superman, no more sandwiches, and worst of all, *no pork chops*--he has to deal with this.

Using the special retinal-scan-only elevator--paranoid much?--Lex takes them back up to the less disturbing upper floors, fingers tapping a discordant rhythm on his bare wrist, a sign of bad things to come. Lex bored is a dangerous, dangerous man. Or one who keeps eyeing electric blue liquor, conveniently left out on a lab table, with an unnervingly covetous eye.

And Lex won't stop pushing up his sleeves, revealing the crease of his elbows and--did he just unbutton another button his shirt? "Is it getting hot in here?" Clark hears himself ask distractedly.

"Yes." Lex sighs, placing a hand on the lab table to vault up beside the bottle. "Environmental controls seem to be down. I *told* you it wasn't quite ready."

In Lexspeech, that must mean no air-conditioning. Something else occurs to him, considering their location. "Lex. Do environmental controls include stuff like--um, air? Cause we are sort of in a *mountain*--"

Lex picks up the bottle. "I didn't see you coming up with any better ideas."

Oh God, they're going to suffocate. Well, Lex will suffocate. Clark would just be really, really, really uncomfortable. Or something. "We have to go somewhere else."

"What a brilliant observation. We'll just ask your goo to *leave*--"

"The hell it's my goo!"

Lex's eyes narrow. He always gets grumpy when he's interrupted. "I'm just saying, if it's green and sentient, it's your responsibility." Lex leans back on one arm, grinning, cufflinks suddenly gleaming in one hand. "Clark."

"What?"

Lex drops the cufflinks with a deliberate flick of his wrist. "Pick those up for me."

* * *

Here's how it happens.

Clark says, hell no.

Lex starts unbuttoning his shirt.

Clark reassessed the situation.

There's something about almost near-death experiences, isolated mad scientist lairs, and Lex sweating. Especially Lex sweating. There are memories of puberty during a very particular Smallville heat wave, when Lex spent quality time walking around in half-buttoned shirts and drinking a lot of water from long, thick bottles. Some conditioning holds true. When Lex sweats, Clark loses a certain level of higher brain function.

"This is such a bad idea."

Four buttons down.

"Lex, we're *deadly enemies*. You try to kill me with crazy, mind-controlled chickens! And that is so your goo."

Five buttons.

"Yes," Lex breathes agreeably, but his eyes haven't been anywhere near Clark's face for the last few minutes, studying how Clark's jeans cover jack shit. Clark tries to breathe. "Yes. I made sentient goo to chase us across the country, specifically to seduce you in my slowly-decompressing lab, right before I die of suffocation. That sounds like something I'd do."

The scary part is, it *does*. "Will you stop--we have to figure out what to do!"

"I was thinking we could start with blowjobs." Six buttons. Oh God, buttons. Buttons, buttons everywhere--*stop looking*. That's deadly enemy skin!

Clark gives the room a desperate look. White walls, white floor, white cabinets, blue liquor, Lex. Lex. "Whatever you're thinking, it's so not happening."

The shirt's *completely open*. Clark stops breathing altogether. Leaning both hands on spread knees, Lex smiles, still crazy, still hot, licking sweat off his upper lip. So unfair.

"I can wait."

* * *

Last year, during a particularly memorable adventure involving Lex hypothesizing that the Mayans had somehow had something to do with some kind of Kryptonian stone (Clark no longer tries to figure out what the hell was up with his ancestors' fascination with random earth societies and weird stones.) and the greenhouse effect, between missions involving hostile aliens and his mother's sudden fascination with an emerging boyband, and all the trauma related to the latter, Clark discovered aromatherapy.

It's said that the body remembers with scent best, which is true, and he'd let Lois bully him to three herbalists and a tiny shop in south central Metropolis that promised earthly happiness, balance, and good sex, all for the price of a really tiny, three-paycheck-costing bottle of something that Clark had been addicted to on first sniff. The value pack had included the specialized equipment to use it, which actually, come to think of it, had a vague resemblance to the supercolliding particle thingy downstairs, if you left off the little turning knobs and the big red Stop button conveniently placed for a hero to shut it down before danger threatened.

Clark reminds himself to ask Lex about that button one day.

It had taken three bottles (he'll never pay off that credit card bill, ever), two disasters, and one superhero therapist to figure out why he had such a fondness for jerking off to it.

"You buy your cologne at that little place in south central, don't you?"

Lex, two feet away, half a bottle down of electric blue liquid death and smiling at the ceiling, turns his head, giving Clark a baffled, yet still sexy, look. "Mm. Yes."

One day, in a fair future, Clark will kill Lois. Or let her fall the next time she stumbles off a building in pursuit of a story. Oh yes. He will. "You shouldn't have--drank that stuff." Jeans chafe. There's a reason he likes the tights. Chafe, chafe, chafe.

Lex on his back is pretty much a short-circuit of brain cells, what with his shirt open, sweaty skin in view, and apparently, getting bored with waiting. The tips of his fingers are slowly, slowly, slowly stroking up and down his bare stomach, coming temptingly close to the far-too-low-to-be-professional waistband of his suit pants. It's indecent. It's--talking. No, wait. *Lex* is talking.

"..thinking about this."

Clark blinks. "About what?"

Lex grins, head turning to fix him with glazed blue eyes, as warm as a summer sky. "Sex with you. Fucking you. Or just you watching me jerk off. Any of the above."

Oh. "You--um." Words. He needs words. And has he moved closer to the lab table? Yes, it would appear he has. "We need a plan. To get out. Of here." Lex's fingers brush the front of his pants as if by accident. The cloth does not hide a damn thing. "Now. Like. Um." It's a freaking *secret lab*. It's full of dangerous, evil, useful things. "Acid. Gene warfare. Viruses!" Lex gives him a pitying look. It would have been far more effective if his eyes weren't crossed. "Laser!"

Laser! Yes!

Lex blinks. Slowly. "Laser?"

"We can--shoot at it."

Lex blinks again. Less slow. An improvement, that. "You want me to put together my new doomsday device to kill your goo?"

Clark bites his lip. It's *so not* his goo. "To save the world," he says firmly, not looking at Lex's exposed stomach. Much.

Lex shuts his eyes. "You are so kidding me."

* * *

Lex's shirt somehow came untucked on the elevator ride down, and while Clark can't swear to it, Lex must have developed a little superspeed of his own, considering that *something* grabbed his ass and the jeans are officially way too tight.

Yet every time he looked, Lex was on the other side of the elevator, innocent as a lamb, and listing slowly to port. Still clutching that blue bottle.

The boxes are scattered like children's toys. Lex leans on one, blinking shortsightedly at a label. "Hmm."

"Lex. Goo."

Lex waves at the boxes, slumping elegantly over the top of his, smiling in Clark's general direction. "Go to it."

No, wait. "It's your laser!"

The level of liquor in the bottle is drastically reduced as Lex takes another drink, smiling seraphically over the top. And slowly, slowly, slowly sliding down the side of the box, puddling himself on the floor in overpriced silk blends and apparently, no shoes. When had that happened?. Like he meant to do it, Lex rests an arm on one knee. "I'm more the idea guy here. This falls under manual labor."

Uh huh. And also, wow, this is a lot of boxes. "Are there--like, directions?"

Lex makes a sound suspiciously like a hiccup, and Clark's eyes focus on the fact that the top button of Lex's pants have mysteriously disappeared, leaving a v of pale, pale skin murmuring to him, wouldn't it be so much more fun to--

No. And no again.

"Real men don't need directions."

Uh huh. "You get lost going to the corner store."

"That," Lex says, straightening in a way that someone could mistake him for someone not drinking probably radioactive liquor and instead merely consider him stinking drunk on something far less rarified, "is a filthy lie. I don't like that corner store."

"Superman, save me, I'm *lost in downtown Metropolis*. That was just embarrassing."

"I was being held hostage."

"By an elevator you didn't know how to work? You were in the LexCorp lobby!"

"I'd never been there before!"

Right. That makes total sense. Clark sighs, staring at the boxes. It's safer than looking at Lex. Hell, kryptonite exposure would be safer than.

Wait.

"Is there Kryptonite in this laser?" Lex might do something like that. Weaken him with Kryptonite, then take advantage of his helpless, sweating body as he writhes on the floorand this needs to stop, like, *right now*.

Lex gives him a long, innocent look while he slowly lists to the floor in an elegantly obscene sprawl. It's wrong. On so many levels. "Only a little bit."

* * *

It looks nothing like any evil laser anywhere in creation.

Sitting back on his heels, Clark gives it a long look, then glances at Lex, currently engaged in watching his fingers wriggle mid-air.

It really makes him wonder what besides alcohol is in that blue bottle, really.

"Lex. Help here?"

Dragging his attention away from the antics of one solitary bending thumb, Lex gives him an annoyed look. "I'm busy."

"Suffocation? Is not a great way to go."

He actually *rolls his eyes*. "I'm sure you'll get us out of this, *Superman*." When Lex says it, it sounds like--oh. No. Don't go there. "Just--do your thing. Save us from danger." A wide, white smile splits his face. "I can be very grateful."

Clark is never wearing jeans again around Lex. Ever. "Does this thing look right?"

Lex eyes it for a second, like he might actually know what he's looking at, or like it's talking to him about Alexander the Great and the Parthians. "No."

And fuck. "Lex. Get your ass. Up. And. Get over here."

Lex considers it. "What do I get for cooperating?"

What does he get? "You get to *live*. Breathe. Plot the conquest of the Asian continent and assorted islands. Get *over* here."

A graceful hand waves in the air, resembling a dying duck flapping its last. Clark reminds himself to tell Lex that someday. "I need more. Motivation."

More *what*? "What do you want?"

Like a cat, Lex uncurls, stretching full length on the floor, all bare skin and silk shirt and unbuttoned pants--unzippered pants. Whoa. "What do you think?"

Clark closes his eyes and wonders if Batman has to go through this with Joker.

Wow. Bad thought.

"No. Way."

Lex grins at him, eyes closing lazily. "Take it or leave it."

* * *

"All right."

A few years ago, Clark figured out that most people did not jerk off after fights with their arch-nemesis. Batman had told him. After *catching* him. Doing. That.

This, Clark thinks, could have been a clue. Maybe it should have led to more intensive session with his therapist. Instead, a long night's flight to think through how he really couldn't be blamed, since his early sexual development phase had been spent, for the most part, a few inches away from Lex Luthor, who pinged for everyone, anyone, and anything. So right. It was, in fact, merely hormonal, and therefore, he could do it, and it wasn't necessarily weird, just his thing. Like Batman's thing was the rubber and talcum powder and oversized athletic cups.

'Cause no way does Batman fill *that* thing out.

Lex, suspiciously, moves with a surprising amount of sobriety for a man on the verge of passing out in his own drool, and one second, vertical, staring at laser; next, on his back, staring at vivid blue eyes and then, it's all dark and wet and oh *God*, Lex is good at kissing.

Good at kissing, good at touching, not so great at world domination, but he tries *so hard* that Clark has yet to find the heart to tell him he'd be a lot less stressed if he took up competitive origami.

Long legs straddle him, and Clark reaches to touch, running his hands over wool as smooth and sleek as skin--wait. Possibly that *is* skin. Lots of skin. No bother of underwear, either.

Suffocation might not be that bad. "Lex."

"Later." Warm lips on his throat, Lex's fingers sliding down to jerk his shirt apart, buttons flying everywhere, and wow, later? That will be so embarrassing. Not now, though. Now is hot. Now is Lex's slick, soft mouth on his throat, his chest, cock against his stomach, grinding down to make Clark arch. Strange little whimpers keep disturbing the air, and it takes a while for Clark to realize it's him.

"Lex," he thinks he says, but it's all vowels and no syllables, or maybe no vowels; the rules of English grammar are so not in the room right now. Lex unbuttons his jeans and jerks them down with a sound that could be tearing, and hey, who knew the future humiliation in store for him once they leave here would make him hot? Clark sure didn't. "Oh God."

Lex sits up, grinning down at him, before wrapping one warm hand around his cock. And 'oh God' isn't adequate for that second at all.

"You know," Lex says, and maybe Clark's ears aren't working right, because it's possible Lex is *panting*, and that's all kinds of brand new and so very, very hot, "You know, if I'd known all it took to get you on your knees was this, I wouldn't have bothered with Kryptonite all these years."

Technically, Clark isn't on his knees, but that's grasping at the straws of logic when the haystack's already blown out the window--and today is not a good day for metaphors. At all. Through dazed eyes, Clark watches Lex let go, almost crying--so *close*--and licks his palm with an obscene amount of tongue before the strong fingers are wrapped back around him and ohh yes yes yes, right there, don't stop, don't stop--

"I'm not," Lex whispers, and Clark reaches for skin--smooth and sticky with sweat, reaching down with blind, clumsy fingers to pull at soft wool, already so conveniently unbuttoned just for him. Lex makes a sound unlike *anything* Clark has ever heard, pushing into his hand and stroking faster.

"Enemies--don't do this," Clark hears himself saying, and wait, is he trying to talk Lex *out* of handjobs? That doesn't make any sense at all.

"Near-death sex. You've seen the movies." Lex braces a hand on the floor, knees on either side of Clark's hips, giving him leverage to twist and rock into Clark's hand.

Yes, he has, and they really gave him a terribly unrealistic view of how his life as a superhero would go, because wow, the entirety of the Justice League combined could probably count on one hand how many times they've gotten laid this year. Clark's are in decimals, if he counts one accidental kiss with a heart-attack victim, but he tries not to, since it was kinda gross and the guy was kinda eighty.

And-- "Oh!" Oh. Oh Lex, and his wonderful slick tongue in his mouth, and his wonderful damp hand around his cock, and his oh God, yes, now, now, now, nownownow "*Fuck*."

Here, in Lex's evil secret lab, Clark sees stars, galaxies, and discovers the meaning of life (so not 47). His hand is damp and the remains of his shirt are forever ruined and my God, does he not give a shit. "Lex." He tightens his grip, watching Lex's lip get caught between clenched teeth, the tiny drop of blood, the crinkle of his forehead, and reaches up with his free hand and pulls Lex into a kiss, feeling him shudder, stopping short and coming with a groan that Clark can feel in his toes.

They lay there for a while, panting up the useable oxygen, and while carbon monoxide death may be in their future, the future is not now and now has Lex a sweaty, come-stained, liquid mess in his arms.

Life? Better than it was ten minutes ago.

Lex noses at his throat, licking idly at sweaty skin, stopping every so often for a thoughtful scrape of teeth, and the second Clark's refraction period is over, this is going to double the amount of sex he's had this year. Again.

Finally, a slow sigh. "Imminent death?" Because it will suck, in so many non-recreational ways, if asphyxiation is involved, not to mention bad, bad, bad.

Slowly, Lex lifts his head, shifting his knees back to the floor to take his weight as he sits up. Damp shirt, flushed, swollen lips, glistening with sweat, he's pretty much Clark's longest running wet dream. The slight glaze in the blue eyes helps. They could surely fit in another round before the imminent demise thing. Surely. "Right. Laser." Shifting onto the floor, Lex gives it a glance, then reaches over and moves something, before collapsing into an elegant sprawl. "Go at it."

Sitting up, Clark looks suspiciously between Lex and the laser. "You said you didn't know how to put it together."

Eyes closed, Lex smiles in satiation. "I lied."

Well, fuck.

* * *

If there's a humiliation greater than being a superhero in civilian disguise holding up their pants mid-air because *someone* ripped the zipper apart, Clark's never heard of it.

Lex, perched on his back like an experienced horseman, isn't helping. "Get closer."

From fifty-nine feet up, it's about all Clark can do to stay airborne. "I go closer, we both become goo-chow. It's *huge*. Why do you need to be closer?" Roughly the size of the valley, Clark could spit and hit it. It's tempting, but again--airborne? Taking all available energy at this time.

"I want to be sure it hits at full strength."

Clark glances over his shoulder and wishes he hadn't. Lex's look of unholy glee (Unholy Glee #2, still second to Anytime Lex Shoots Clark) is a lot less reassuring than it should be. Good thing, Lex is focusing all that malevolent-ness at someone (-thing?) else. Bad thing, that it's a lot more hot than when it's directed at, say, Clark.

Clark grips the front of his pants together manfully and refuses to think about it another second. His cock doesn't quite agree. This so isn't happening. Desperate, Clark tries to force the torn zipper together and wobbles mid air. Lex's shift on his back stops his heart for a brief second before the long thighs clamp around him like a steel trap.

"Stay *still*!" A cuff to the back of his neck, like an unruly horse.

"I'm *losing strength* here. You know, kryptonite? Kind of, I don't know, *deadly*? Take the damn shot! And stop hitting me!"

Lex murmurs something uncomplimentary, but the next thing Clark sees is a shot of something reddish hitting it. No real effect, but at least all the waving stops. Wobbling again, Clark clenches his teeth as Lex's heels begin to dig into his stomach. It doesn't *hurt*--but it's not comfortable by any stretch of the imagination. "Uh, Lex, could you--"

Another shot, and Lex's heel is slipping downward. In a way inappropriate to flying and, well, survival. Clark's cock's interest in the matter heightens, and oh God, if anyone could *see* this--

Another shot. And the goo--is definitely going away. Retreating with goo-slowness, but definitely moving *away*, and Clark enjoys a few seconds free of the feel of the stuff before Lex spurs him with a heel. That? Is annoying.

"Follow it!"

Well, fucking *duh*, Lex.

Clark has no sense of how much time passes as they sweep over hill and down dale, the green goo slowly running from them and, if the effect on him as they get closer to it every time is any indication, getting smaller. It's like Clark imagines driving a herd of cattle. Just--less cattle. Lex's joy in destruction is almost palpable, and he uses his heel way too often for Clark's peace of mind. And they're coming into occupied territory now.

"Lex."

Lex is in his zone. It's kind of nice, Clark thinks, to see him so invested in doing *good* for once. "Not now."

"Um. It's a lot smaller." Like, an acre now. Maybe less.

"So?" Glancing over his shoulder, Clark watches Lex line up another shot. "Just a second and--"

"Maybe we should--"

The next shot is probably the longest, and if one were, say, suspicious, one might think Lex was taking out some repressed aggression on the green goo, since he has that look on his face that promises dire consequences to all who dare to cross him and blah blah blah, evil, whatever. It would be yawnworthy if Clark wasn't aware that they're disturbingly close to a major highway and the possibility that someone might see them soon.

See two half-naked guys, one armed, hovering over the greater Smallville area, while one tries to avoid an aerial indecency charge with his pants doing their level best to gape open. Not a particularly shocking sight for a longtime Smallville resident perhaps, but that doesn't make it less embarrassing.

Also, no green goo.

"I'm landing," he says, and grits his teeth, not bothering to angle his line of descent so Lex won't be uncomfortable. He just doesn't feel that sympathetic right now. Finding land, Clark jerks up the jeans, feeling Lex slide onto the ground like a man getting off a kiddy roller coaster. The bastard doesn't even *stumble*.

"Well," Lex says, and Clark doesn't dare turn around to see the satisfied expression on Lex's face. He's always like that after winning. "That certainly made the day more interesting than expected." As casual as if his shirt isn't gaping open, he's barefoot, and he still smells like Clark. And sex. Very much like sex.

Clark glares, but on some level, he's aware that there is no way to pull off Superman's glare when his jeans keep trying to slide down to his knees and his poor, confused cock, now aware of Lex-skin being a very attractive thing, desperately trying to climb out. It's beyond humiliation. "That was so your goo."

There's comfort in the fact that Lex, also not looking his immaculate best, can't quite pull off Evil Archnemesis with any sort of credibility while holding up torn wool. "I did *not*. Now, could you get the fuck *over* the drama and get us back to civilization?" Lex gives his ruined pants a betrayed look, like he expects more of trillion dollar wool than to gape open in such an unseemly way.

Clark doesn't look. Much.

"Get you back--" It shouldn't be a surprise, but it is. "I--you--"

Lex looks up, all wide-eyed innocence, and he pulls it off, too, which is just the most annoying moment in history, right up there with the fact that by now, Dad's eaten every pork chop in the house and Clark will be reduced to hunting the fridge for last night's spaghetti. "Clark--"

"You--you have *got* to be kidding. After--after your *goo* and after--"

Lex smiles. He also drops his pants. That shouldn't be sexy. It really, really is. "I can be *very grateful*."

Clark reassesses the situation. Lex can make him do that.

They might be here for a while.

* * *

 **Son of the Goo**  
by [Madelyn](mailto:%20svmadelyn@livejournal.com)

Clark winced as he picked up a large rock.

"God, you're a Neanderthal!" Lex protested, scooping up the tiny creature. It-it dissolved into a flat puddle in his hand, and Clark and Lex both watched, shocked and not just a little curious, as it reformed into its previous shape. "We're not going to crush it to death. Jesus, Clark." Turning his attention back to the goo, he murmured, "Shh. We're going to take you to my lab and find out how you got so big," Lex said, eyeing it steadily.

"*We're* not doing anything. I can't even take off if you're holding that thing." Clark protested, growing increasingly high-pitched.

"Hmm," Lex said non-committally. "Oh, a truck." Clark made a noise that sounded disturbingly like a squeak and flattened himself to the ground so that exposure was at its minimum.

Lex made a small sound of disgust and tucked the goo into his pocket. He ran to the side of the road, waving his arms over his head calmly. The truck actually stopped and Clark continued to observe, awed, as Lex leaned into the window and said something. He then pointed at Clark lying on the ground, and a startled laugh rang out from the car. Lex nodded and continued talking as Clark pressed his body into the sweet, cool ground. Maybe it would suck him in.

The car was on its way half a minute later, and Clark looked up cautiously as he got to his feet. Lex was now airily tossing around a lead pipe, complete with gleeful smirk.

Clark blinked. "Well, get that into some sort of shape to hold it already," Lex instructed impatiently, handing over the pipe. Clark bent and twisted this way and that, by rote. Wordlessly, he handed the misshapen pipe to Lex, who carefully pulled the goo back out, and placed it inside the pipe. He tucked it neatly under his arm and looked at Clark expectantly.

Resigned, Clark bent slightly so Lex could climb on again.

* * *


End file.
